on
his eye-glasses; Vergil Gunch, broad, with coarse black hair en brosse;
Eddie Swanson, a bald and bouncing young man who showed his taste
for elegance by an evening waistcoat of figured black silk with glass
buttons; Orville Jones, a steady-looking, stubby, not very memorable
person, with a hemp-colored toothbrush mustache. Yet they were all so
well fed and clean, they all shouted "'Evenin', Georgie!" with such
robustness, that they seemed to be cousins, and the strange thing is
that the longer one knew the women, the less alike they seemed;
while the longer one knew the men, the more alike their bold patterns
appeared.

The drinking of the cocktails was as canonical a rite as the mixing. The
company waited, uneasily, hopefully, agreeing in a strained manner that
the weather had been rather warm and slightly cold, but still Babbitt
said nothing about drinks. They became despondent. But when the late
couple (the Swansons) had arrived, Babbitt hinted, "Well, folks, do you
think you could stand breaking the law a little?"

They looked at Chum Frink, the recognized lord of language. Frink pulled
at his eye-glass cord as at a bell-rope, he cleared his throat and said
that which was the custom:

"I'll tell you, George: I'm a law-abiding man, but they do say Verg
Gunch is a regular yegg, and of course he's bigger 'n I am, and I just
can't figure out what I'd do if he tried to force me into anything
criminal!"

Gunch was roaring, "Well, I'll take a chance--" when Frink held up his
hand and went on, "So if Verg and you insist, Georgie, I'll park my car
on the wrong side of the street, because I take it for granted that's
the crime you're hinting at!"

There was a great deal of laughter. Mrs. Jones asserted, "Mr. Frink is
simply too killing! You'd think he was so innocent!"

Babbitt clamored, "How did you guess it, Chum? Well, you-all just wait
a moment while I go out and get the--keys to your cars!" Through a froth
of merriment he brought the shining promise, the mighty tray of glasses
with the cloudy yellow cocktails in the glass pitcher in the center. The
men babbled, "Oh, gosh, have a look!" and "This gets me right where I
live!" and "Let me at it!" But Chum Frink, a traveled man and not unused
to woes, was stricken by the thought that the potion might be merely
fruit-juice with a little neutral spirits. He looked timorous as
Babbitt, a moist and ecstatic almoner, held out a glass, but as he
tasted it he piped, "Oh